A Scout by Any Other Name
by Jaxson The Great
Summary: What's in a name? That which we call Scout by any other name would be as swift. So Michael would, were he not Scout call'd, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title... Wouldn't he?
1. What's In A Name?

**CHAPTER 1**

**WHAT'S IN A NAME?**

"New shipment comin' in, boys," Engineer called into the depths of the BLU base as he and Sniper pried open the huge wooden crate, freshly delivered, with the words "Buliders League United Update" stamped on the side in blue ink.

Almost immediately, a pounding-type sound, almost like a large horde of elephants chasing a peanut truck, sounded overhead. It thundered down the second-floor halls, growing louder and more elephant-like as it went, and stampeded down the cement, blue-painted stairs, rounding corners and thudding against walls clumsily until finally reaching the room in which Engineer, Sniper and the crate waited.

Engineer seemed entirely unsurprised to find that what had sounded like a very dangerous elephant stampede was actually the rest of BLU team, eager to reach the box and its contents.

They gathered around impatiently, shifting their weight from foot to foot, as Engineer and Sniper pulled each smaller box, still large enough to fit a man, from within the large crate, each stamped on the side in blue letters, spelling out each class' name, respectively.

As each box was dropped with a clomp onto the blue-black cement, it's respective class quickly snatched it up and tore it open, eager as children on Smissmas morning.

It was a spring update, which meant Daisy Shooters, Butterfly Bombs, Wallaby Blinders, and Planetary Snakebite Control, and that was just the beginning. There were hats, too, and assorted skins. Bunny ears, Eggrenades, pastel camouflage, and a new beekeeper skin for Pyro.

Just as the team was calming down, excitedly examining and comparing new weapons, trying on hats and exchanging friendly banter, Engineer dug deep into the crate, extracting the final box, smallest of all. On the side was no class' name, only the letters BLU.

As each class had already received a crated update, Engineer curiously opened it, prying the wooden slats away with a crowbar, as the others had done.

As the final side fell away, the entire team froze, their heads swiveling as one to hone in on the strange new... Thing that had come to rest in their base.

The Thing was not a RED. The Thing was not a BLU. The Thing was not a female. The Thing was not alive. The Thing was, as far as anyone could tell, a massive, triple-layer black forest cake with eight cherries and a small white candle on top.

The BLU team mercenaries stared at the confectionery masterpiece with a kind of curious hunger, and time stood still. Sniper was reminded of the time he'd spotted a dingo skirting the circle of light his campfire gave off. He'd thrown it a scrap of meat, as it'd looked starved, and, he recalled, it had stared at that meat in the exact same way his teammates were staring at this cake, now.

Engineer, the ever-cool companion, even in the face of chocolate cake, calmly tore a sheet of paper from its place on one of the slats making up the box's side, where it had been nailed, and read it aloud.

BLU team, congratulations

on your latest victory. Please

accept this cake as a reward.

Sincerely, Admin.

Three seconds of sweet, chocolate-scented silence passed as the team continued to stare at the cake in wonder. No "Admin" had ever rewarded them before.

The thick silence broke, suddenly, as Scout leapt up, making a mad dash for the pure-sugar creation at Engineer's feet.

Scout was fast, but Soldier, who was closer, managed to intercept him.

"Cake! Called it," Scout cried, but Soldier countered him, growling an "Oh, no you don't, sonny!" as he caught Scout around the middle.

Scout squirmed, struggling to free himself, but Soldier tackled the boy, knocking him to the ground.

They hit hard, but Scout, being Scout, recovered quickly. He pushed Soldier away with his feet, keeping out of the older class' reach.

The rest of BLU team, recognizing a good fight, sat back, content to watch. Skirmishes between the two were almost routine in the space between battles.

"No! That cake is mine!" Scout squealed, scurrying to an upright position. But halfway there, Soldier managed to catch the ball chain that Scout's tags hung from, and dragged scout back to the ground, trapping the chain between his hand and the floor.

"You cannot have it! You are on a strict NO SUGAR DIET, Maggot!" he yelled. Scout retaliated by baring his teeth and biting the hand that held him down, easily drawing blood.

"I bet you Herr Soldier wins," Medic muttered to Spy, who sat beside him, but the French gentleman shook his head as Soldier howled in pain.

"Non," he said, "Scout will win this one. Soldier is stronger, but Scout is more determined."

"You're on."

While their teammates bet on the outcome of the fight, Scout and Soldier were still locked in an intense brawl.

Scout, trapped in Soldier's fierce grip, twisted, making pathetic use of his blunt fingernails on the granite floor in an attempt to reach the cake, but Soldier dragged him further still from it. Finally, Scout turned on his agressor, attempting to push the heavyset man away from him. The chain broke, and Scout was free.

Scout scrambled to his feet, flinging the useless tags to the floor. He and Soldier began to circle each other, never breaking eye contact.

Suddenly, Scout ran from the challenge, faking left, then right, and finally turning and running, straight for the cake. Soldier followed him, and managed to rip the boy off his feet by catching hold of his waistband and pulling hard. Scout landed with a bang that made a few of his teammates cringe, but he shook it off, managing to act as though nothing had happened.

At last, Soldier managed to detain the boy by smashing his head into the floor, holding it down with one hand while holding Scout's arm behind his back with the other. Scout squirmed, but could not break free this time.

Suddenly, a burst of intense heat very close by startled all of the assembled classes, and Scout finally managed to slip from Soldier's strong hold, just in time to see Pyro step away from the once-beautiful chocolaty treat, now reduced to little more than a lump of smoking charcoal BLU team watched in a startled silence as Pyro inspected the charred lump of ash, nodded in a self-satisfied way, and slung his flamethrower casually over his shoulder.

"...!" Heavy made a sound like a kicked puppy in protest, but did not seem to be capable of forming words, while Scout squeaked similarly like a rubber ball underfoot. Understanding his protest, despite the lack of speech, Pyro removed his thick mask, pushing his auburn hair out of his face.

His dark, stormy grey eyes surveyed the room's inhabitants, their shocked expressions. Scout, in particular, looked close to tears.

"Oh, come on, you guys," he said, his strange Alaskan accent sounding alien to the others after so long of not hearing it. He was usually the strong, silent type. "Doesn't it seem suspicious? A cake? For us? Everyone_ knows _she likes RED team better."

"But-but maybe it wasn't even_ from _that old hag!" Scout protested, delicately touching the white waxen puddle that had once been a candle.

"All the more reason," Pyro said, stepping gingerly over Scout on his way back to his update crate.

Scout collapsed backwards, splaying his arms and legs in exhaustion, all the fight drained from him, as BLU team's chatter slowly returned. He allowed himself a few deep breaths as he closed his eyes, preparing to sleep until their next battle. He didn't see Spy's lithe, gloved fingers curl around his dogtags and the ball chain they hung from, lying a few feet away.

"Scout..." he said slowly, upon reading the information the tags held.

Each class, RED and BLU, carried a set of two dogtags on a chain. The tags were each labeled with a name, first and last, class, serial number, and team, both color and number. The tags that Spy held read:

Julian Buchanan

Scout

344676552

RED 11

"Scout," he said again. "What is the meaning of this? The name on these is Nathan, but isn't your name Michael?" He examined them a moment longer, then said, still slowly, "Scout... why are you wearing the tags of a RED Scout?"

A few of the other BLUs gasped, and Scout cringed, squeezing his eyes shut tight as he covered his face with both hands.

"Shit," he moaned. "Here it comes..."

Before the word "spycheck" had even formed in Demoman's mouth, Pyro had leapt back into action, gleefully dousing Scout with flames as easily as he'd burnt the cake. But the fire, while hot, had no effect, and Scout continued to to lie there, calmly watching as Pyro attempted to turn him into toast.

When at last the hydrophobic man was satisfied that his friend was indeed a BLU Scout, he stepped back, his face a reflection of the troubled confusion the rest of the team felt.

"So... care to explain?" Sniper asked after a long moment, arms folded sternly, head cocked questioningly to the side.

"No, not really," Scout replied after a moment of thought. He climbed to his feet, dusted off a shoulder nonchalantly, and snatched the silver tags from Spy's hand as he headed for the door.


	2. Tis But Thy Team That Is My Enemy

**CHAPTER 2**

**'TIS BUT THY TEAM THAT IS MY ENEMY**

Scout, being Scout, was not one to lose his energy. But the fight with Soldier, coupled with the intense battle less than 24 hours ago, had drained him.

He shuffled down the hall, holding the silver tags, letting the broken chain hang from the edge of his cupped palm, swinging slightly with every step. As he walked, he stared down at the silver surface, the indented letters and numbers, each with a thin line of red ink at the very bottom. He knew he'd been foolish to wear the old tags so boldly out of battle, where his team might notice something was amiss, but, in a moment of reminiscence for times long past, he'd traded them for his own.

Reaching his class room, Scout kicked closed the door he'd left hanging ajar in his moment of excitement, and threw the old tags into a drawer at the standard-issue, stainless steel desk. He grabbed up his own tags, stamped innocently in blue ink and labeled clearly with his own name, and put them on before collapsing onto his army-standard cot.

He was determined to sleep until the next battle was on, in three or four hours, but instead was kept awake by the hundreds of random, pesky memories that floated around his brain like ashes in the air after a Pyro attack.

_"Mikey, stop that damn cryin' for chrissake..."_

_"Don't leave me! Take me with you..."_

_"You know, someday you'll be a Scout, too, just like me..."_

_"I know you'll make a great Scout, Mikey, because you can run like I've never seen..."_

_"I can't let you go! You're just a boy is what you are. You've no place among murderers..."_

Scout huffed and buried his face into his pillow. He was stupid to think that idiot Spy wouldn't notice. He noticed everything. And, as usual, it would've killed him to keep it on the down-low. Now the whole team knew, and it could only be a matter of time before someone-

As if on cue, a soft knock sounded on the flip side of Scout's door. He grunted in response, and Medic poked his head in.

The two stared at each other for a moment that was uncomfortably tense. While long, the moment stretching between them was a silent agreement that Medic would not ask about the tags, and Scout would not ask why there was what smelled like lighter fluid all over the German man's clothes.

"What," Scout mumbled, his words getting lost in the fabric of his pillow.

"Er... Herr Scout," the man said, nervously glancing around the room, as though visually spychecking. "Your little brawl vith Herr Soldier vas... brutal. Abnormally so. Vould you like me to give you a checkup?"

Scout closed his eyes and reburied his face in his pillow. Now that he thought of it, his body felt severely bashed and bruised, and his head was throbbing painfully.

"No," he said, barely coherent through his pillow as he closed his eyes again. "G'way."

When the room had been silent for several long moments, Scout tentatively peeked an eye open, but Medic was still there, staring at Scout's unmoving figure.

"What?" he said irritably, sitting up. "See? I'm fine, a'ight? So just go."

Medic remained silent for another second, then, raising a finger to point out an offending purplish streak decorating Scout's bare upper arm, said, "Zhat bruise suggests otzherwise, kolibri."

Scout covered the mark with his hand. "Shove off, doc! Why don'cha go fix up Solly's hand or somethin'? Stop botherin' me already!"

Medic adjusted his glasses cooly, and hesitantly took a breath. "Herr Scout..."

Scout stared hard at the doctor. "Ye-e-es?" he said slowly in a hard voice.

"Eh... Make sure you get some rest before zhe battle, ja?" he said quickly before stepping from the room, shutting the door with a soft snap.

.

.

Scout collapsed back onto his bed, filling his mind with thoughts of dominating enemy Spies in order to keep the stupid memories at bay. He hated Spies. All Spies.

They were stupid, weak, and untrustworthy. They lied, stole, cheated and seduced their way into whatever they wanted, and then, just when you get used to their being there, and just when you're sure this time will be different, they up and leave. Bail. Quit.

Scout hated quitters. They always managed to screw up everything.

He laid there for quite some time, staring at the dingy, cracked ceiling, but not actually seeing it. He was thinking about the metal tags at the bottom of the drawer. He had tried to throw them away more times than he could count, but every time he came close to hurling them beyond the tall metal fences, or dropping them into the murky water, or giving them to Engineer to use as metal for his buildings, or borrowing Soldier's rocket launcher and blowing them to pieces, or wrapping them around a baseball and smacking the crap out of it until he lost the ball, he chickened out at the last second. They were too important to lose; too valuable.

After what seemed an eternity, but was actually about an hour, Scout groaned and slid off the bed. It was only when he was depressed that it was hard to motivate himself to do anything. Sliding the desk drawer open, he retrieved the tags from a pile of papers, pencils, magazines, letters, and a sock. After all those years, he still remembered the day he'd promised the owner of the tags, one Julian Buchanan, that he would always keep them with him, as a good-luck charm.

But Julian was gone, now. Dead, for all Scout knew.

For all he cared.

Stuffing them into his pocket, Scout exited the room, only to immediately slam into a large wooden thing sitting right in front of his door. From his view of it from the floor, he saw his class name stamped into the side, and knew that it was his update crate, which he had forgotten all about after the fight. He figured Medic had brought it up with him.

After pushing it into his class room, intending to deal with it after the next battle, Scout crept through the halls, hoping not to run into anyone on his way to the mess hall. He was hungry and could still smell the cake in his mind, but he knew that anyone he met would not be as understanding as Medic had, and would pepper him with endless questions. They'd likely want to spycheck him themselves, just to be sure, or else they'd avoid him, making a point of not looking at or talking to him.

Luckily, no one was around. They'd likely all gone off to the practice arena to try out their new update gear. Scout would do that too, later. He wanted to get a handle on his new Easter Eggrenades.

But for now, he was hungry.

Normally, Scout would have made a beeline for the salty snacks; crackers, chips, pretzels and the like. But ever since Soldier's idea of putting him on a "no-sugar diet", he'd been craving sweets like mad.

He scoured the kitchen, haphazardly searching the cabinets. Evidently, Soldier had removed every sugary item from the base, anticipating Scout's random snack attacks.

Scout poked his head into a low cabinet, peering in the darkness for any sugar at all, hidden away behind the bottles of cleaning solution he found there. It smelled like Clorox and mildew inside.

"Looking for something, Mikey?"

Scout yelped at the voice and banged his head on the top of the cabinet. Backing away and looking up through the tears of pain welling in his eyes, he saw Pyro standing over him, wearing his favorite grey-green plaid jacket and torn cargo pants, his cheeks bright red. There had been a time when Scout had thought Pyro was blushing, but time had taught him that the hydrophobic's cheeks were always red, almost as though they had been perpetually sunburned. He looked down at Scout, casually leaning on the counter with a gap-toothed grin. Obviously, he was amused that he had managed to sneak up on his young friend.

Scout said nothing, gingerly rubbing the top of his head as he slowly stood. Pyro was a good friend, but today Scout was wary. He never knew what to expect from the man, so he couldn't tell whether he was about to be berated about his tags or not.

Pyro watched his young friend's face carefully, then grinned even wider, showing off his unusually pointy canines. He dropped a bag of cookies that had been hidden behind his back onto the counter next to him, and Scout was instantly alert. He leapt to his teammate's side and greedily grabbed the bag, tearing it open and stuffing several cookies into his mouth before hoisting himself up to sit cross-legged on the counter beside his friend.

He munched away happily, easily forgetting his bumps and bruises in the rush of the sugar. Pyro continued to stand, watching some point across the room, arms folded as he leaned on the counter's edge. Scout ignored him. Pyro usually only talked when he had something important to say.

Just as Scout had managed to fit six cookies into his mouth at once, Pyro, without changing his position or turning his head, said, "Was important to you, wasn't it?"

Scout choked. Coughing up crumbs with streaming eyes, he managed to splutter a "What?" and he saw, rather than heard, Pyro's laugh in the minuscule shakes of his shoulders.

"Cake, I meant," he said, clearly amused that he had yet again surprised Scout. "Sorry I burned it."

Regaining his breath, Scout coughed a few more times before saying, "N-no, you were right. It didn't make sense. And, y'know, Solly'd'a had a fit."

Scout took another bite, more cautious this time. But nothing could have prepared him for what came next.

"The tags, too. They belonged to someone once before?"

This time Pyro did turn around, just in time to get sprayed in the face with a mouthful of crumbs.

Scout coughed violently as Pyro cooly swept crumbs from his hair. He no longer looked amused, but rather very serious and determined. Scout knew that his reaction had given the truth away, but still attempted to laugh it off.

"Nah, Py, I wouldn't keep somethin' a dumbass RED gave me... I just found 'em out on th' field one day, an' they seemed kinda neat, I guess. Plus, y'know, RED 11's all full'a old guys, anyway; That Scout on 'em's probably been dead for fr'ever..."

He was rambling. And stuttering. He nervously watched his comrade's expression, but Pyro had grown too used to not using his face to convey his feelings, so Scout couldn't be sure whether his lame excuses were believable.

He was spared finding out, however, by the appearance of Soldier in the doorway, telling them to head to the Main BLU Room for debriefing before the battle. Luckily, Pyro's head blocked the helmeted man's view of Scout's cookie bag, so he tromped off without a word. Scout noticed his right hand had a bandage wrapped around it, dotted lightly with blood.

_Climb it, candyass, _Scout thought, mentally flipping the man off as he crunched another cookie.

.

.

Scout darted behind a stack of crates, easily avoiding fire from a sentry. He gripped his Scattergun loosely, wary of attracting too much attention. Normally he would be used as a diversion, to distract the RED team while Soldier or Spy did whatever needed doing, but it was Payload season, now.

Scout liked to think he was pretty much indispensable during Payload battles, because he could push a cart twice as fast as any other class. But today, he didn't want to push the cart.

Today, he wanted revenge.

Team RED 47, the enemy at Thunder Mountain, was running all over the place, trying to keep the BLUs from delivering the cart to their base. It was hard to keep track of them all, scurrying around like ants. But today Scout didn't want to kill all of them.

He only wanted to kill one of them.

He darted around, making sure his team was okay without him while keeping his eyes peeled for his target. If too many of his teammates were gunned down at once, he would jump in and help push for a few moments, keeping the cart from stopping, or, worse, going backward. But when there were enough to push it along without his help, he continued his search.

About five minutes into the match, he first saw his quarry; the RED Spy. The man was disguised as Pyro, but Scout could tell he was a fake by the way he crept around, keeping to himself and always staying close to the cart. Pyro loved Payload season, and usually he would never rest, even if he were the only living BLU left. He liked to stay in front of the cart, cutting a path through the enemies. Without so much as a second thought, Scout dashed over to the Spy and hit him in the face with his baseball bat, then shot him twice at close range with his Scattergun. At point-blank range, it was deadly. He waited for Respawn to kick in to make sure the Spy hadn't used a Dead Ringer, then went back to the cart to wait.

A moment later, he did it again.

And again.

And again.

"Scout!" Sniper called to him after his sixth time killing the RED as he and the others struggled to push the cart up a small hill. "Wot th' 'ell's th' matter with you? Stop mucking about and get to the cart!"

Scout ignored him. "Dominated, ya shapeshiftin' rat!" he yelled into the ever-darkening sky. "Disguise that!"

"City boy, if you do not get your butt over here, I am going to strangle you with your own frilly training bra!" Soldier bellowed, pushing with all his might, burly shoulders pressed firmly into the back end of the cart as he walked slowly backwards, keeping his hands free to keep the REDs at bay.

"No, man," Scout panted, glancing around for the Spy. He would have Respawned by now. "I got this!"

Then Pyro came over. He tromped straight up to Scout and slapped him upside the head with his gloved palm, then shoved him towards the cart. "Mmmph hrrgh mrgh hrghph! Mrh! Hrt nh phrnt yrh mrprph!"

Scout could never understand the masked man as well as the others, but his meaning was clear, accompanied as his words were by violent, angry gestures toward the cart.

"A'ite, fine," Scout moaned, shouldering his weapon and trudging lethargically over towards the cart. Pyro turned away grumpily. As soon as he was too far away to be of aid to Scout, however, the boy was roughly grabbed from behind and dragged into a secluded corner, out of the way of the cart and its tireless pushers.

"Did you miss me?" RED Spy hissed in Scout's face, pushing his pistol to the younger class' sweaty forehead. "I would like to kill you quickly, but you would just run back over here instantly to 'get revenge', wouldn't you?"

As an answer, Scout spat in his kidnapper's face and attempted to karate-kick the enemy to a safer distance. But as he had refused Medic's offer to heal him earlier, the numerous bruises decorating his body throbbed as Scout cried out in pain, and the attack failed.

The RED Spy laughed menacingly and twisted Scout's arm behind his back. "_Tu es tres pénible _to my team," he murmured. "I'm going to make this as slow and painful as possible, _petit blesse_."

Scout struggled, whimpering in fear. He didn't doubt in the least what he was told, and had even witnessed some of the man's handiwork, from time to time. It was enough to make him fight back with all he had, but suddenly found he could not move at all when the Spy's blade pierced the skin in his lower back, severing his spinal cord and rendering him paralyzed.

He fell to the ground, as helpless as a newborn kitten. He could move his arms still, but a Scout was not trained for anything other than a speedy getaway... on foot. He had no idea how to escape, now.

The Spy knelt at his side and cut two quick, efficient slices across Scout's chest, in an X as the blue-clad boy gasped in pain. The blood welled quickly, but the cuts were not deep enough for a bleedout. Not yet.

The Spy then picked up a stray bottle and smashed it on the ground, then continued to grind the shards into the wound, making quite a mess of Scout's uniform, not to mention his body. Reflexively, Scout winced and his body curled in on itself and he started to call out for Medic to come save him, but Spy, seeing this coming, quickly rose to his feet and stomped on Scout's face, breaking his jaw.

"Does it hurt?" he said, frowning down at the mangled Scout, now with blood and tears streaming down his cheeks. "_Je m'en fiche_. Why don't you rage quit? Ohhh... that's right. You _can't. Maintenant, ne pleurnichez pas, et halt 'a en lutte contre moi_."

With that, Spy dragged Scout into the corner and unceremoniously dumped him there, donning the disguise of Scout himself before slipping away to deceive his way through the rest of BLU team.

Scout weakly moved his arms, attempting to dig all the glass from his chest cavity. But he couldn't. He couldn't. It hurt so much...

By some sheer miracle, Sniper came around at that very moment, no doubt looking for a health refill.

"Scout! Bloody... Wot th' 'ell happened to you? We're gettn' slaughtered out there without your speed!" his eyes took in the mess of blood and gore that was Scout. "Who did this?"

Scout coughed, a spurt of blood erupting from his ruined face as he tried to breathe in something other than blood. "Sp-Spy... He's disguised as me... Snipes-" He choked.

"Stupid bloody Spies... All roight, jus' hold on, now..."

He left, and Scout felt like a fish out of water, just struggling to breathe. A mercy kill sounded pretty good, right about then. he wondered what Soldier would say to that.

A moment later, Sniper had reappeared, with Medic trailing behind, clearly nervous to be out in the open, where he could easily be attacked. But at the sight of his fallen comrade, he shot a shock-filled glance at Sniper before quickly setting to work, aiming the healing ray at Scout's pain-wracked body.

And then everything went to hell.

In a split-second moment, two shots rang out, leaving Scout's ears ringing painfully from the sound, and both Medic and Sniper fell to the ground, dead, both with identical, circular holes oozing blood from their heads. Wildly, the half-healed Scout looked around for the assailant, but saw only a red lazer dot zooming across the dusty ground towards him before he, too, joined the others in Respawn.


	3. That Which We Call A Scout

**CHAPTER 3**

**THAT WHICH WE CALL A SCOUT**

_"MISSION ENDS IN 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... VICTORY."_

The RED team's cheers rose up into the pre-dusk sky as the match ended. Soon the cheers had blended into terrible screams of gory death as the victors easily gunned down the losing BLU team. Julian would have liked to join in the celebratory bloodbath, but he had other places to be. The moment the BLUs were defenseless, he sped back to base, shedding his class-specific accessories as he went.

As the sun crept slowly towards the horizon, Julian sprinted to his class room, hurriedly yanking off his sweaty RED-themed shirt and shoes and dusty old hat while gathering a few items strewn about and shoving them into his bag. As he undressed, he memorized the route in his head, going over every corner, pothole and shortcut along the way.

He showered in a rush, dressed in much nicer, cleaner clothes, then was out the door like a shot.

He paused only once, when Engineer stopped him, asking where the fire was. But Julian easily deflected his friend's curiosity, hastily feeding him some story about a new product he couldn't wait until morning for. He darted around to the back of the RED base, to where he kept his bicycle, and soon was off, zipping down the ever-darkening, unpaved dirt roads near Granary.

He raced the sun in its swift decent, carelessly hopping curbs and making risky 180s every time he missed his turn. The farmland air was cool on his skin, and he breathed deep, feeling like he could run for hours. His heart beat twice its usual rate, and something pleasant was fizzing in his stomach, like a freshly-opened can of something carbonated.

Finally, he reached his destination. Hopping off his bike, he stood it carefully against the little white mailbox before darting up to the front door and ringing the bell.

He stood there, nervously hopping in place until the door opened, revealing a young woman with long, shining black hair and a modest dress of red material that fell just short of her knees, revealing playful white sandals. In her hand was a small white card, which Julian had slipped under the door early that morning, before work, telling her to be ready for him.

"Julian's here, Ma! I'll be back later!" she called into the depths of the house, looking over her shoulder as she did, giving Julian time to arrange his face; he'd gone a little weak in the knees at the sight of her, and he'd felt his jaw drop. When she looked back, a sweet, lopsided smile on her lips, he had managed to make his face look professional and mature.

Suave, like Spy.

She stepped carefully up to him and daintily offered a smooth white cheek, streaked lightly with an artificial blush, which he pecked. Julian offered the young woman his elbow, and they descended the steps together. She waited patiently, hands behind her back, as he righted and mounted his bicycle Then she climbed on, remaining in a standing position as she placed her feet on two pieces of metal extending from the back wheels, and her hands rested softly yet firmly on his shoulders.

They were off.

This time, Julian was extremely careful. After even the smallest of bumps, he would glance back, making sure his precious cargo was okay. But she noticed none of his concern, instead tipping her head back, letting the cool evening breeze caress her perfect cheekbones and petite upturned nose and comb its fingers through her silky hair the way Julian never had. She never seemed to care too much if her hair got a little mussed when she and Julian went out.

He loved that about her.

Soon they had reached their destination: a small drive-in theater The man manning the ticket booth had given Julian a look when he pulled up to the window on his bicycle but the RED Scout had paid him no mind. Nothing mattered when he was with his beautiful girl.

Years later, he wouldn't remember the movie. He wouldn't remember the way they sat in the dirt, in front of all the cars, with a blanket underneath, and he wouldn't remember the way her dress, the red one with the white flower print and pink petticoat, got popcorn crumbs all down the front when she burst out laughing at some line on the screen, nor would he remember how she'd giggled and wrinkled her nose at him, looking like a kitten, when he fake-yawned, only to lose his nerve at the last second and drop his hands back into his lap.

But he would remember that she'd smelled like lilacs, and her hair had turned out perfect, anyway, despite her carelessness He would remember the way the light from the screen reflected in her eyes-the most gorgeous eyes in the world-like little spots of yellow and green and orange in the deep sea of azure, and the way her nails had been perfectly clipped, and made fancy with a french manicure. He would remember smiling at that.

And he would remember Jaguar.

For the rest of his life, he would remember how a voice had rang out during a quieter scene in the movie, directed at the girl he sat with. He would not remember the comment itself, but he could still see, decades later, the way her head had snapped up, and her shoulders tensed. He would remember the way the voice called out a few other things, all the while her hands remained clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes set straight ahead, and her lower lip trembling slightly.

He would remember spinning around, almost instantly spotting the owner of the voice, a young man, not too terribly far from Julian's age, sitting with a girl in a blue convertible He would remember rushing over to the man, and punching him in the face.

He would remember the man stumbling from the car, eager for a fight, and Julian's Scout training kicking in. He still winced at the thought of the biggest mistake he had ever made. In his mind's eye, he could see himself punching the man, whom the girl kept calling "Jaguar" until the employees of the place had come in, tearing the two apart and banning them and their dates from the theater He would remember how, as he had climbed back onto his bike, the beautiful girl behind him, Jaguar had called out, "You'd better watch your back, punk! I'll see you around!" as he sped off in his shiny blue car.

And how, later, standing under the light on her front porch, the girl had cupped his face, bloody and beaten, in her soft hands and had kissed him softly, as he had watched a drop of blood fall from his face to stain the perfect white lace fencing her breast, whispering that it was all right, and that she didn't think any less of him, and that it had been a nice night, anyhow, and that it didn't matter.

Oh, but it did matter.

How it mattered.

When he got back to base, the others were all out back, drinking and betting and doing things that men do. Nobody inquired about his bloodied face. He had hoped they wouldn't.

He slipped easily back into the role of the Scout they knew. The cool and collected RED that never let anything stop him and never had time to let pain get in his way. Soon he was drinking and laughing along with them, and he was the one to suggest they sneak over to the BLU base for a visit.

Base-hops were not uncommon, and sometimes the two teams would even do it at the same time, sneaking to the other base, slapping a tag or spray on the wall and sneaking back, like an altered game of tag.

It was easy for Julian, who had done it many times. There was no sign of the BLUs anywhere, and he stuck to the shadows, creeping along in the darkness until he was in the small lean-to that all the pipes and water heaters and whatnot were.

Usually he would post up the most annoying and obnoxious spray he could think of, but not today. Not after what had happened.

He pulled his pocket knife out and scratched a small tag into the wall, just behind a big pipe, near the corner.

Julian + Mae

He went over the lines many times, to make sure they stood out. It was exhilarating, confessing your love in enemy territory. He almost wished she were there with him, even though he would rather swallow a bag of hair than see her anywhere near either base. It was too dangerous for a girl.

Just for the heck of it, he added a small "Scouts rule, Spies drool" underneath before dashing back out into the night, to the safety of his base.


	4. In Thine Eye

**CHAPTER 4 **

**IN THINE EYE**

Scout opened his eyes and was blinded by the florescent lights in the resupply room before growing accustomed to the yellow glow. As per usual, the Respawn had left him lying flat on his back, and he slowly climbed to his feet. To his right, the doors leading to the battlefield were securely shut, and he knew the battle was over, and that his team had lost.

He turned to leave by the only door, leading into the depths of the base, and saw the last few of his teammates streaming through it, shoulders drooping and feet trailing. Scout hurried over to join them, but none of them looked at him. Even Heavy, who always had a positive word for everyone, even in defeat, kept his eyes on the ground.

They reached the base, and Scout started to head to his class room. Respawn had taken care of the hole in his head, as well as all that the RED Spy had done, but the bruises and soreness from earlier were still there, and side effects from the Respawn itself had left his head aching worse than ever.

Before he could reach the hallway that led to his class room, however, he found the way blocked by Sniper, Soldier and Demoman.

"Fellas..." he said warily, but his greeting was cut short by Soldier barking, "Son, you're a disgrace! You've disappointed me and your entire country!"

"Me!?" Scout yelped. "What did I do?"

"Yes, you! You're the reason we lost the bleedin' match, ya spastic little gremlin!" Sniper yelled. "If ya would've let up on dominatin' that bloomin' Spy for a second, ya would've noticed we needed yer speed!"

"We was get'n cut doune lik bloodie Smissm' trees oute theere!" Demoman shouted, accent thick with his rage. His strong voice echoed around the room, causing Scout to flinch. The man wasn't even drunk.

"I uh... I-" Scout backed away, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of his team for help. But Engineer was looking away, expression troubled, and Medic was watching the confrontation nervously a short distance away. The others were nowhere to be seen.

And Pyro. His best friend in the whole wide world and the only class left, Arnaaluk Razumny, also known as Luke, though only to Scout, couldn't seem to meet his eye.

"I-it was a freakin' Spy, guys! He would've backstabbed us all if it weren't for me!"

Soldier growled. "What have I told you, maggot? Have you forgotten everything I've ever told you about Payload strategy?"

Scout blinked, blushing in embarrassment. At the beginning of each week, Soldier always insisted on sitting the rest of BLU team down like a gaggle of geese and explaining the rules of the season, going over good tactics for each class, and making a team-wide battle plan. If there was one thing he always stressed more than any other thing during Payload season, it was that nothing, _nothing_ was as important as pushing the bomb.

"That Spy would've slowed us down, true, but not with your combined speed! Wot th' bloody hell were you thinking?" Sniper spat angrily on the ground, clenching and unclenching his fists in fury at the loss.

Then, miraculously, Medic stepped forward, his arms crossed sternly at the three angry men as he stood at Scout's side. "Leave zhe boy alone," the German man said, putting a reassuring hand on Scout's shoulder. "He has had a long day. Ve all have."

The others backed down, muttering half-baked curses and dark obscenities, and Scout was confused. Why was Medic standing up for him? He was mad about Scout's costing them the match, too, wasn't he?

"Uh... thanks, doc," he muttered, eager to get back to his class room for some rest, but Medic tightened his grip, this time on Scout'd upper arm, causing the younger boy to yelp in pain as the bruised muscles from hours before were squeezed.

"I zhink you had better come to my office, kolibri," the bespectacled man said, already pulling Scout away.

.

.

The door snapped shut with an official-sounding click, and Medic said, "So tell me."

"Uh... what?" Scout gave the doctor a confused look as he peered about the place. It was in a rather disheveled state, with papers scattered here and there on the floor and bottles of this and that stacked up in no particular order on the many shelves. The drawers and the tops of the mysterious machinery set up about the room seemed to be covered with bits and pieces of feathers, straw, ribbons, hair, and other malleable objects in the form of nests, some with little feathery white heads peeping curiously out.

Medic led Scout over to two chairs in a secluded corner that Scout had never noticed before, and gestured that he should sit. "What was the reason for going after zhat enemy Spy so much?"

Scout paused, considering telling the man anything. He didn't want to, afraid of what his mouth might betray. He had so much to hide, and so many things he was loathe to remember. But he was tired, and knew the man wouldn't let him leave without proper healing. So, grudgingly, he unceremoniously dumped a small pile of papers onto the floor before plopping down into the chair, glad to finally rest. Medic did the same, all the while watching Scout intently.

"I uh... I already told ya," Scout muttered, uneasy under the man's gaze, careful of his words. "I was tryin' ta keep th' team from bein' freakin' backstabbed!"

Medic said nothing. Scout nervously drummed a rhythm on his knee, glancing anywhere but at the older man. He felt twitchy, like he might say something he'd regret at any time.

At last, Medic reached into his pocket and drew out a small white pill bottle. "Take two. Zhat should take care of zhe bruises," he said as he tossed it to Scout. "But please do feel free to come by anytime. Anyzhing you tell me will not be repeated, I assure you."

Scout nodded, easily downing the pills dry. He sprang up from his seat, stretching out his arms like a cat. "Yeah, sure, doc, whatev," he said, throwing the words, along with the bottle, over his shoulder like grenades as he darted out the door, carefully nonchalant.

.

.

Scout zipped down the hallway, happier than he had been all day. The pills had taken effect almost instantly; his headache was completely gone, and he'd somehow managed to escape Medic's prying questions. The loss had even seemed to erase everyone's memory of his extra set of tags! He stretched, sticking his right arm out ahead of him as he ran and flexing his fingers. he met no resistance and no pain, indicating that the troublesome bruises had disappeared completely.

He skidded to a halt and tried out the karate kick he had been unable to use during battle. Oh yeah! Now he was ready to bash some Spies!

Suddenly, a ball of paper smacked the wall beside him, interrupting his shadowboxing match. He looked up and saw Pyro standing several yards away, glaring at him, still poised with one arm outstretched, as though the paper had only just left his hand. His cheeks were flushed more than usual, his narrow, steel-grey eyes the barest slits, and his mouth a thin, hard line.

Scout blinked. He'd almost forgotten the whole team was mad at him, even his best friend.

The older man turned away, stalking in the opposite direction, and Scout curiously retrieved the paper ball from the floor. Knowing Pyro, the paper likely was a note of some sort; Pyro's favorite way of communicating.

Indeed, it was an official announcement that Payload season had ended, and that Capture the Flag was due to begin in two days. It clearly stated that Scout's team, BLU 44, was to be completely cleared from the base and set up in the BLU base at Granary by the next day. The new opponent would be RED 11.

"_Merveilleux,_" he moaned, then gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth, glancing back down the hall he stood in in horror. had anyone heard?

He waited in silence for several seconds, but when no alarm went off, no FBI agents poured in to arrest him and no Hellfire pit opened up to swallow him up into an eternal damnation, he dropped the notice back on the floor and darted off at top speed to his room, slamming the door tightly behind him when he finally, finally reached it.

RED 11. Julian's team. Scout moaned and flopped face first onto the dingy cot that served as his bed. What had he done to deserve this? He didn't want to face Julian. Not now, not ever. And Capture the Flag was the worst season to face him in. With every class focused on a different task, it was always easy to simply slip away for a few minutes without anyone noticing.

Scout didn't want Julian to have that kind of advantage.

But then again... Maybe he wasn't_ on _RED 11 anymore. After all, he'd never written since_ It _happened. Maybe he'd been moved to a different RED team since, or maybe he'd been killed once and for all!

Good riddance, Scout decided with finality as he jumped up and retrieved his bag from under the bed. The FortrExpress usually left around midnight, and Scout didn't want to make his team hate him even more by being late.

He threw in the old RED tags first. He didn't usually go anywhere without them on his person, but he didn't want to have to endure another Spycheck if they were found in his pocket, either. They were closely followed by every set of his class uniform he owned, save for the ones he wore, all his hats, and a few extra items from around the room, leaving plenty of extra space in the bag.

Soon the room was bare. All that remained were the few sparse furnishings found in every class room, a few blankets, a Scout recruit poster or two, and the Update Crate, still sitting like a stubborn duck in the middle of the room. He pried the top off and peered inside. There were two sacks of colorful Eggrenades, a bunny-themed accessory or two, and a new hat nestled in the packing straw within.

He pulled out the hat and looked it over. It was a basket filled with colorful squares of tissue paper. Pulling it on, the paper fell over his eyes, turning everything a muted blue color. Eyes obscured, he imagined he looked a little something like a Soldier.

Pulling the hat off with disgust, Scout shoved it and his new items away in his bag, and gave the empty crate a kick as he went to the closet to retrieve his two most precious possessions from the top shelf, near the back, where no one would ever find them unless they knew they were there.

The first was a hat, old and worn and fraying in places. It wasn't black, like the standard Scout hat, but instead brown, and in a paperboy style, rather than a baseball cap. It had once been very crisp and brand-new and nearly too big for him, but now it was soft, and it fit nicely. He carefully switched it out for his own, but not before removing the second secret item from the aging interior.

His second most precious possession was once a very lovely photograph; a white square of paper with sharp edges. But now, like the hat, it was old and dusty and well worn. The sepia tone image was rubbed off the paper at the edges, and it had long since lost its laminated shine. You could only make out the details in good light, but Scout loved it all the same.

It was a family portrait. That much was easily discernible, from the identical noses and hair and lopsided smiles, one side always higher than the other. A woman with short dark hair stood to the right, smiling pleasantly. Next to her, according to height, were seven boys, all very nearly identical, though each was a different age. They all had dark hair and rosy cheeks and big, bright eyes and there was something about the nose... you could just tell they were all related to the woman.

On the right was a tall man with lighter hair and a perfectly symmetrical smile, if you ignored the one dimple on the right side. He was dressed in a simple suit and tie, as all the boys were, and in his arms was a young child with the bright eyes of the woman, but everything else resembled the man, right down to the dimple.

Scout's family. His mother and father and Spencer and Jacob and Cameron and Keith and Dustin and Sammy and Jonah and him.

He glared at it and tucked it back into his hat, for safekeeping during the trip. He hated to look at it, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing it, much like the tags. And he wouldn't dare go anywhere away from the base without the old hat. Suddenly, he couldn't bear to think about times past any longer. He'd rather be Spychecked a thousand times.

He left the door open when he left, to air out the memories.

.

.

The night air was cold and sent its victims shuddering and shivering with every cool breeze it blew their way. They stamped their feet on the hard cement, hugging themselves for warmth, pulling hats and coats and scarves closer. They even huddled close together, sharing body heat, waiting in a shivering group for the train. It was still early spring, and the last dregs of winter were still upon them.

Scout was left on the outskirts of the group, sitting, huddled, on the stack of luggage. The entire team, it seemed, had decided to ignore him altogether, which was fine by him. The last thing he wanted was more trouble.

He was pretty cold, though. Pyro was a good friend to have around when you were cold; he owned a lot of warm coats.

But Pyro wasn't speaking to him, now, nor was anyone else. It shouldn't have bothered him so much, but he wasn't used to being ignored. He liked telling stories and jokes and laughing and making fun and teasing and mocking and at least being _around_ other people.

They weren't so bad to talk to, when you needed to forget things.

Like now, for instance.

Scout stared straight ahead, wondering if it could get any colder. He strained his numb ears to catch the wisps of conversation from his team, standing a few yards away, and he balled and unballed his fists, next to naked in the bitter wind. Anything to distract himself.

But it wasn't working. Around him was the Thunder Mountain station, a shabby little building painted all white and blue, with maps and notices and recruit posters galore on the inside, and benches and a deck alongside the train tracks outside, where only BLU team stood.

But in his mind, Scout saw a red-painted station, the deck crowded with people; men, women and children, on a warm summer's evening. It was the Granary station, and the train, big, shining and huffing steam, sat on the tracks before him, waiting to receive its passengers. Even now, he could still smell the ripe peaches in the air, feel the golden sun on his head, and hear the excited chatter of people all around him.

And he could hear himself crying.

Julian was there. He was tucking a white square into his bowler hat for safekeeping, and he was hugging Scout tightly. His fingers were in his hair, smoothing down the curls. He said something, but Scout blocked it out. He clutched the man's jacket tightly in his fists. Julian let go, then, and dropped the two heavy discs of silver on a chain that were his Scout tags into Scout's hands, saying something about keeping them with him at all times. He was tugging his favorite old hat onto Scout's head, over the dirty blond mess. He smiled a brave smile, the kind you put on for your loved ones when you'd rather be sobbing your heart out, and Scout was crying. He hugged Julian tightly and didn't let go, bawling into the man's jacket collar, until the train whistle blew and his hands were gently pulled away. Julian spoke to someone else, then. Scout didn't watch. He buried his head in his hands. When he looked up, Julian was on the train, looking out with a frown as the doors drew shut and the locomotive slowly pulled away, leaving Scout behind...

The memory drew away, and Scout blinked back into reality, all the bitter cold, both physical and emotional, crashing into him at once just as the real FortrExpress pulled up, looking small and filthy and run-down. Before he could stop it, a single tear rolled off his eyelashes and onto his cheek, then it fell down, down, down, to paint a tiny darkened circle on the cloth covering the heel of his hand.

Hastily, he passed the back of his hand over his eyes, then stood, grabbed his bag from the pile, and followed his team onto the train.


End file.
